


Disconnected

by KayMoon24



Series: The Strings That Bind Us [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Depression, Frustration, Gen, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayMoon24/pseuds/KayMoon24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers tries to do his best to understand the technology of the 21st century. Even if it means asking for help, or chucking the stupid thing out the window to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disconnected

Despite Tony's more innovative ideas that sparkled, gleamed, and damn near dehumanized the whole fortress that was the former frame of  _Stark Tower_ , Steve Rogers stayed out of sight, out a mind about the whole charade. He contented himself to sitting quietly at the table, or Tony's downstairs bar, fingers tightly woven together, and knuckles borne white with pressure. He didn't want all of that metal and swank. He just wanted a simple room. That was the big idea, anyway. Simple. But, as always, Stark opened his big mouth and decided that Steve's room would be "The pinnacle of a clash of _old—"_  (Steve always never had time to brace himself for the severity that word brought to him—like the sound of a drill Sergeant's gun—relentless, always present, always watching-  _Are you forgetting how out of place you are? DROP AND GIVE ME 50—YEARS, WEEKS, MONTHS! Remember how alone you are, feel that, feel it slipping away—what year is it, what date is it, always know, watch, watch, check your_ -)

He took a breath, blinked—opened his eyes.  
  
No water. No ice. No bomb. Just a voice. Steve snapped to attention discreetly. Tony's was still talking; his smooth, charismatic voice starting to sound more and more like a countdown to…

To what?

Steve's cheerful mouth turned into a worried frown that Tony disregarded with a turn of his heel, too caught up in his own wild, innovations, listing off brands and decor names that Steve had already forgotten.

"—and  _new_ ," Tony continued with a shrug, his dark eyes flickering to the Captain's in a bodily motion that jested something coy, yet darker in the genius's diction, just edging on Steve's good nature to speak up.  _Come on Gramps, I dare you to tell me you_ hate _it_ , it seemed to bid. Steve merely turned the corners of his mouth pleasantly, feeling slightly sick inside.

"New," the blond repeated politely, an unsure, desperate smile lingering over his faces as he followed Tony into the aforementioned room. It was only all his lost decades of 40's finesse and the strictest of manners that allowed him to keep his grateful tone underneath his slowly building aggravation that tightened behind tremulous blue eyes.

Now the idea of 'simple' was anything but. His four walls of calm where painted thick with dark hues of glass, plate and blue. All the furniture was slick, shiny, and unsettling in Steve's eyes just the same. A large, flatted television somehow clung to the top of a wall. A low bed with black sheets, shining clocks from different time zones around the United States watched the solider minute by minute, day by day. He tried his best to make do with his situation, but it wasn't long before the avoidable began to slip through his nervous cracks. He had trouble sleeping at night when the wide, ever glowing eyes of a 'digital' clock stared at him from the side table. The television was a complete disaster. Once he slept for a week with it on because the blasted thing didn't have an 'off' dial anywhere near it. And there was no way he was going to try to use that  _ree-mote_ gizmo again. Luckily he found the electricity outlet and pulled the plug from the thing, and soon left it unplugged from the wall, kicking the cord behind a glass framed dresser before anyone else caught on to his lack of nescience.

Thank goodness for the careful eye of the ever prevalent Miss Natasha that finally got it through Tony's pretentious head that it'd probably be best to let Steve have his boring, 'square' room just how he wanted it—as the Captain had dark purple circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and always seemed to be covered in a thin sheen of sweat from too brief, too nervous of showers, the idea that diligent, cold, omnipotence of some disembody voice that Stark always was jabberin' off too, could not only be  _listening_ , but  _watching_  him as well…while he  _showered_ of all intimate places!

Tony easily let Steve do what he wanted after Natasha's suggestion. And, in all honestly, Steve found that wasn't that he didn't like Tony Stark. The guy was obviously bright, suave, and sometimes eerily, in his drawl or turn of phrase, or just completely lack of disregard, reminded Steve of his best friend Bucky…but it also meant that Steve didn't quite trust that Tony was telling him the whole truth of things. Never the less, he sought to give Stark the benefit of the doubt when Tony explained that  _"Jarvis"_ wasn't watching him, this wasn't  _1984_ —whatever _that_ meant—and that when the teammates were in their rooms, they were completely alone.

And it also meant that, as much as he just wanted to never see a new piece of 'advanced' technology again, he also accepted the cordless phone from Tony. A 'cell' phone, or 'mobile' or something or some other dig.

Now secluded in his room, Steve Rogers turned over onto his back, a tightly muscled arm resting on a lean, off-white pillow while the opposite lay across his chest, thumb mindlessly stroking the small, smooth back of the electronic that still wouldn't settle down on matter how many times he pushed or poked at it. At first, Steve just sought to ignore it. He decided that, for what the War was worth, he could just fake it using it. He could fake  _everything._

He could fake that he understood the exchanges of microwaves, televisions sets, and invisible wires that somehow linked everyone together within 2012. He could fake that he knew what a MP3 was, or an Apple was something more than a fruit, or what 'rap' culturally represented.

He generally just tried to focus on what he did know. Like how he was just glad to have a bed. A real, four post frame with a mattress, a couple pillows and a single sheet. He didn't want for anything—in fact, a lot of the clothes that Tony had thrown at him that somehow spoke of 'sophistication and style' from the latest New York Men's Fashion magazine, he quickly donated to a local Good Will. He bought a couple of plain tan army slacks, a few new t-shirts, a brown jacket with white-wool lining, and a decent set of brown loafers. He enjoyed the width of his dresser along the west wall, the suture of a closest to the east and a chest to the south. All the space he was never allowed in his boyhood's farmhouse, or an army tent.

If there was anything to say about the future, it was that at least beds were the same. He still couldn't bring himself to sleep much, but to rise up every morning, and stare out the large, opaque window— run his fingers over the same cool glass that he was touching, to what was to him, just hours ago the same glass of his own apartment back in 1938…Bucky would knock at the door any second, begging him to come out to some new joint and pick up dolls—see Howard Stark's newest invention—see a picture show…

Steve forced himself to not think about Bucky. Faking it.  _Faking_ it.

Hell, he tried to sneak himself into every darn near Recruitment Office from the age of 16 to the age of 19. How hard could conquering the twenty first century be anyway?

He clutched his grip around a small, smooth electronic, _cordless_  for pity's sake, phone. It felt so fragile and crush-able, yet entirely out of reach. He drew in a deep breath; bringing overly careful fingers to flick open the front of the casing, which simultaneously read out to him the time of  _1800 hours, 2012._  Like a pulsing, flashing slap to the face, Steve snapped it shut quickly, his light blue eyes narrowed into the stitch that was forming the smile around his usually easy-going expression. He just couldn't  _believe_ it.

Somehow, trapped in the palm sized device, words from Tony Stark were resting, laced inside a tiny, shimmering looking parcel. It continued to press its image into the little square window in the outer shell. The idea of packaging reminded the solider of Sunday morning parcels, singing, city-weary tele-o-grams. Back in the days were if you wanted to have a  _conversation_  with someone, you had to get up and do it  _yourself._

Blond brows furrowed as he studied the telephone's keys, the pattern practically engraved into his memory like the Rosetta Stone. But without the ladder translation. It was all so useless to him. Here he was, a War Hero, and he felt so bombarded by these minute little black squares highlighted with different numbers, strange letters, and icons he didn't have the slightest clue were for. He had stared at it for so long, praying for an enlightening that never came.

Steve brought the device close to his face, eyelashes practically touching the numbers, when suddenly the thing began to tremble and shake in his palm like a grenade. Lightening quick, and more built in reflex than not, he let go instantaneously, lobbing the jittering phone through the air, getting it away from him as fast as possible, his heart suddenly in his mouth from sheer surprise. It struck the wall bluntly, and plopped down onto the grey soft carpet, continuing to shimmy and work itself into a frenzy until finally it just seemed to kneel over right there on the floor.

The blond blinked, wracking his brain for the clues that Stark had left for him in his long-winded speeches about cordless telephones, electric cars and voice-activated lights. But soon it was all turned around in his head. Was this the contraption that you needed to hit two buttons and it'd turn off? Or was it that  _ree-mote_ guy, that you'd have to point? Was he receiving a call when it shook? Or did this just mean that mini-messaging non-sense? He sighed into his hands, fingers moving through short yellow strands, locking his knees together.

Now he'd have to go ask someone.

_Again._

Steve nervously eyed the cordless phone, forcing himself not to belly-crawl towards it, because,  _dang it_ , he's slick enough to understand that none of him teammates would give him anything that would hurt him. Previously, all topsy-turvy fool-marks Captain America had made himself. For starters, Rogers first time in Tony Stark's tower nearly made the solider lose his mind in less than 20 seconds. Thor was the first in, accompanied by the shady fella Clint "Hawkeye", and Miss Romanoff—while Steve just remained dumbstruck about where the elevator operator was. Tony jovially slapped him across the back and led him inside, and then started speaking to no one in particular. Before Steve even had the nerve to turn and ask Stark if  _he'd lost his marbles_ , a sharp, clear, and perfectly inhuman voice resonated from someplace in the ceiling, making Steve jump and swivel around to find its source. He was used to over-coms of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s speakers, female narrators reading off charts and formations—but this…this voice…it was so… _unnatural…_

Needless to say, it wasn't the first of the many strange looks Steve received from his team. And Stark could only laugh at him. Continuously. Steve hid the embarrassment in his blush by studying the sleek, blue titles under his feet for the rest of the tour.

When he was sure the phone was dead, he carefully flicked it up his hand, and made for the door. The door was probably the only material in  _Stark Tower_  that was made of something malleable and natural. It was wood—bleached, sanded, speckled with black, bits of dark red and highlights of off-white—and yeah, he still startled sometimes when he caught his reflection in it—but somehow, deep, deep down behind the façade, it was still  _wood_. He stopped just before the handle, and ran a finger down the overly glossy frame, catching the melancholy gleam in his eyes, the polished thin, worn press of his lips. He closed his eyes tightly, bracing himself for the same feeling of  _déjà vu_ that he felt every time he left his room for the main hall. He couldn't shake the motion that he wasn't just passing into another time period from his safe, centered, professional room—but into another world all together.

A world that he felt he'd never quite fit into. No matter how hard he tried to spruce and smart himself up.

He walked quietly through the echoing, darkened halls, stopping occasionally to glance at the phone in his hand, weary of its next plan of attack. Two silver metal doors opened up to Tony's living room, and the shock of white light mixing with the backwards darkness of the halls caused Steve's eyes blank momentarily. A long, circling couch took center stage before a large, flat screen television. Giant landscape windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showing off all of the glinting, sunlit skyscrapers of New York City. Instantaneous relief washed over the solider, as thankfully there was neither Stark nor Clinton to jeer him about his sudden confusion over something that was 'apparently as simple as a shell flip phone'. The grip on the phone tightened.

But he wasn't alone.

Hunched in a round, sleek looking chair, Bruce Banner sat at the open kitchen counter; a device called a 'computer' sprawled across his lap. Steve sighed. Maybe it wasn't too keen on cordless phones, or ridiculous television sets, or disembodied robot voices—the  _computer_ seemed to be the black hole that Steve's slowly building universe was being sucked into. He didn't get them. At all.

It wasn't that he was too terribly shocked at their existence—waking up less than 4 months ago to the twenty first century causes most of everything to lose that effect—but it was just that  _everyone_  had one. He contented himself to thinking that most high technological equipment was generally meant for the army, Government, President, and S.H.I.E.L.D. No one else. But yet, somehow, someway, this abyss of copulations was in the lap of nearly everyone he met. And perhaps even worse than the new lingo of today that made Steve feel out the more outdated, the language of this service called the  _'internet'_ seemed to saturate the most basic education of the public. He couldn't escape it.

For instance: when he went to buy a quart of milk at a gas station near Fifth Avenue, the clerk asked if he had a profile called Book Head—or Face something. Steve nearly dropped his change right there and made for the door. Was that man a spy? Did have the means to hack into the data that only S.H.I.E.L.D. possessed? Did he already blow it by speaking? Why would he  _ever_ set up information about himself for the whole world to see? The last thing this planet needed was another egotist like Stark. But Steve was soon discovering that 'ego' seemed to be the top goal of this new world. And don't even get him started on  _'E'-Mail_. Steve was completely puzzled at that notion. Nick Fury tried to best to get him understand the workings of 'dragging and dropping' with an oblong lil' dingy that certainly didn't look like any rodent  _he'd_ ever see, of setting up an E-Mail so that information would be more secure than physically sending it. But Steve was completely adamant to not partake.

"You have my address, Sir." He monotoned to Fury's exasperated expression as the S.H.I.E.L.D. commander sat, forcing the soldier's hands to tap stingily and slowly over the keys. "I just don't understand the jive about it all. Can't you just post me it?"

Fury fought hard for a compromise.

"Mailing will be safe," Steve swallowed a bit of his pride to trickle down his throat, already knowing that he couldn't go back to living at his apartment alone. It was decided that this reclusiveness that he so desperately wanted wouldn't be good for 'adjusting into his current circumstance'. "I'll be at  _Stark's._ "

It was only to this arrangement that Fury agreed.

Well. He supposed old fashion values really did come at a high price. But to feel actual  _mail_ in his hands in a world of virtual disconnection—he was more than he had words to describe.

But he still hated computers. He wondered briefly if he should call out to the Bruce, or if he'd be too absorbed into that screen to hear him. It happened a lot when Steve was asking a question to Miss Romanoff when she was watching television, or when Tony was listening to that loud, screaming, obnoxious garbage he called 'music' from that king-sized radio of his. Steve had a sneaking suspicion that the folks of today were slowly going deaf due to those white little flower-buds they had in their ears as they walked the streets of Manhattan.

So Steve slandered over and pulled up the closest chair next to the Doc, suddenly unsure of how to begin, a cold nervousness running down his spine. It wasn't that he didn't mind asking for help. But it was the  _look_  that the others gave him—sometimes pity, sometimes annoyance, most often condescending amusement that really made Steve feel like a total yuck. Soon Steve found he just had too much pride, or maybe too much  _bitterness_ to ask any Avenger more than twice for assistance. He felt too many times the irk of Clint's stare, or Miss Romanoff's shallow excuses, or Thor's long-winded theatrical explanations that left Steve needing an Old English Dictionary just so he could understand the solution, let alone the problem. And God forbid he ever have to ask Stark again. Steve cringed outwardly at the ghostly, arrogant laughter that seemed to exist everywhere in the Tower regardless if Iron-Man was it in or not. Kinda like that robotic-voice that Tony was always yammering too.

But still, he was happy to at least this time get the Doc.

He'd lost genuine count of how many times he'd causally sat down next to Banner and fangled with the stinkin' thingamabob, muttering haphazard instructions that flickered through his mind like mission agenda from long ago ( _from dying soldiers? Fury? He wasn't sure_ ) that only pulled the blond's mouth into a hidden expression of frustration.

Surprisingly, it only took a minute before the curiously curious dark brown eyes of the Doc settled on the Captain. Steve didn't like to mull it over much, but the Doc seemed to be the only person who had the ironic  _patience_  to painstakingly explain over and over the universally familiar devices. Even though, sometimes, Steve feels like the tapping of Bruce's fingers over the keys is going to drive him  _up the wall_.

"Captain," Bruce greeted coolly, his glasses sliding a little clumsy down his nose as he strictly turned to look at the solider, his fingers still  _tap-tap-tapping_ over the keys without pause.

"Doc, really—the formality isn't needed. You can call me Steve, you know," The blond added, forcing a good-guy smile to his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. He dropped their contact with Banner's.

Banner raised his eyebrows, a bit of a twitch causing a small, expression of realization to pass. Steve hadn't known anyone here too terribly long, but he knew for certain that Bruce never smiled much. Usually only when he was tinkering with something sharp, dangerous and humming with electricity, or chumming it discreetly up with Tony in a closed off lab. Gradually, the tapping stopped, and Steve felt he could breathe a little bit easier.

"I'll work on that," the physicist nodded, hands resting on the smooth, silver surface of the sparkling keys. "So…more 'technology troubles', shall we call it?'

Steve allowed a small huff of admittance to slide between his tight smile, placing the cordless telephone in front of the two bodies and staring at it like it was a loaded gun for a second round of Russian roulette.

"It uh, I dunno, it keeps ticking, an' vibrating?" Steve meant for his details to come out straight and savvy, but now he simply sounded like a moron with a question.

"Ah," Bruce breathed out, reaching for the phone.

Steve brought up both muscular arms to set his elbows on the counter, resting his forehead against his hands, nail bitten fingers reaching through blond hair.

"Doc, I swear, I think I'd go completely bonkers without you," Steve allotted. He then slightly paused before he quickly added: "Er, I mean…crazy. Outta my mind. Not…um, 'bonkers'."

Steve flushed at how easily his turn of phrase was made fun of. Today, everyone talked to an exaggerated and blunt degree that he still couldn't bring himself to use. It just felt natural to keep the 40's slang around. It was comforting to a secret degree, even if he was the only one using them.

Bruce managed some type of sound the might've been a laugh, but it was cut out before it reached a real definition. "I'm just glad to help. I can't even imagine what these pass months have been for you."

Steve couldn't bring himself to respond. The quietness lasted between the two men for a restful second. Steve watched half-heartedly as Bruce's sure fingers traveled the sides of the cordless phone and pushed at some side switches and hit a few buttons.

"Did you…make it stop?"

"Yes," Bruce responded, "It won't react like that anymore." Bruce's brow eyes glanced to the soldier's quickly. "I'm going to take a guess and say that was pretty bad for you. I," Bruce's mouth fixed itself carefully. "…heard a noise from your room."

"Scared the hella'outta me, yeah," Steve mumbled, a hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Bruce could only give a respectful 'hm' as he turned the phone over. "How long have you had this again?"

"Um…I think about a month or so," Steve admitted sheepishly to the doctor.

"And Tony gave this to you, correct?"

"Why? Did he say something?" Steve's eyes flickered to the phone alertly, trying to train his pupils to find where those blasted words came from again.

Banner's fingers swiped over the phone's keys, cleverly deleting the message of Tony Stark's text of:

_Problem, old man? Xoxoxo_

before handing the phone back into the hands of Rogers. Rogers sorely stared at the device for a moment, before setting it down on the counter again and standing.

"I don't want it back, if that's alright with you, Bruce."

Bruce eyed the solider questioningly, moving a hand to pick up the phone once more. He flipped it open to glance at the military hours.

"I've just got this funny feeling that Stark's only using it to pull the wool over my eyes." Steve said, drumming a knuckle across the counter as he moved away. "Besides, I don't really need it, do I?"

"I understand that all of these outrageous methods of phoning and communication are daunting. But, if it helps, I believe I have a better phone suited for you than Tony's games."

Steve stopped for a moment. "It's like I said Doc. I just don't think— "

"But what if we need to contact you? An emergency? It's just nice to be connected in some way."

"I'll find a booth," Steve consented easily with a wave of his fingers.

Bruce cleared his throat quietly, and turned in his chair to finally face Captain America full on. "Steve…I'm not sure how much you've been around outside these days—I can tell you, I don't like it out there either. But…those are…often hard to find."

Steve ducked his head down, studying the floor once more. "Well, let's just face it Doc. Booths don't exist. Trolleys are gone. I'm apparently 'obsolete'. Why keep pussy-footing around it all? Who  _am_ I gonna call, anyways?" He craned his head up to take in the chrome, mirror ceiling the poured down his reflection straight back into his eyes. He forced himself not to blink.

"All of my friends are dead." Steve voice started out strong, but ended in a whisper at the realization of his words. Oh God. Oh  _God._

Bruce lapsed into silence at the lonely, aching bite in the usually optimistic leader's voice, his brown eyes resting on the solider before drawing back to the computer, but yet he couldn't bring his fingers to move. A coil unfurled in his stomach, causing his fingers to tremble... He sighed, pushed down his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. Steve still hadn't finished staring down his reflection before Bruce startled his thoughts by suddenly padding to stand beside him.

"I've killed a lot of my friends," Bruce spoke slowly, his words lying on the air like heavy stones dropping into a misty, still pound. He hands nervously fretted with his roughed up shirt, light purple with a few chemical stains here and there, the brown of his jacket looking more worn than Steve had previously recalled. The doctor swallowed, before he continued, wondering if he'd start to feel himself lose control. But only his heart-rate sped up. "I mean…the Other Guy…I—I suppose."

"No," Steve watched the eyes of his reflection widen, and dropped the gaze, his blue eyes finding Bruce's and locking in tightly, chiding himself internally for acting so selfish. "That's not your fault. Not your fault  _at all_. It's the Other Guy. It's not  _you_."

"Heh," Bruce shrugged, "But I still feel that guilt just the same. And, sometimes, it's hard. I keep thinking that I could have done  _more_ ; I keep thinking if it had just done _that_  way. But I'll never know," Steve could only stare, stunned at the idea that the doctor  _shared_ , practically thought the  _same_ mantra in his own head that Steve fell asleep repeating every night, and woke up with the words resting on his lips. Bruce gritted his teeth darkly, his face hollow as he fought to articulate himself.

"I don't believe in Destiny but… I guess my point is that sometimes it's hard to face progress. To face what your future is. What you've left behind, whether you had control or not. And I bet for you that holds truer than anyone. I bet, right now, you feel like the most power _less_ man on Earth," Bruce let out a dry laugh before he continued:

"Well,  _believe me;_  I know what that feels like all the time. But…this is where you are now… This is where I am now, too. It sucks. But, you also aren't  _alone_ ," Bruce paused, his eyes slightly glancing over Steve's somber expression, his dark eyebrows raised, debating his answer carefully, his lips dry. "I know I'm not really the one to be giving you this kind of pep talk—it's not…well, my thing. But…I'll be glad to explain any questions you have. It's actually kind of fun…to do that kind of thing. I guess that's the nerd in me, as Clint would say."

"Believe me," Steve nodded, a little taken back from the sudden speech coming from the quiet doctor. "You're definitely not a square. Clint's just trying to get under your skin,"

Bruce messed with his shirt again, clearly done with expressing his limited feelings before turning back around. Steve's eyes followed him. "I mean, if I knew _half_  the basic knowledge that you do, why, I'd be able to take on  _30_ 12,"

Bruce cringed into his chair, fingers pulling at a coat sleeve. "Well, if that's the case, why limit yourself now?"

Steve rebuked at the question, stunned, before finally coming to the conclusion he didn't want to face _. Face it. Fake it. Face it._ Now he had to say it. He paced towards the central couch as if his every step were words.

"I…don't even know where to begin. I feel like I'm the bottom of the barrel, and having Tony just throwing all of this razzamataz and muti-million dollar corporations is completely over-whelming. The paparazzis and the cameras. I don't want any of that. Frankly, I've done my time with my silly 'Captain America' talkies, but yet…the public is just  _beggin'_ for more. Tony has such a natch for being a' glitterati. And…I just feel like _Tony_ is what America needs now…to be the real hero. So he can dash about and smile and deck up…"

Bruce politely nodded his head as he listened to the soldier's lament.

"I don't think I'm  _needed_ anymore," Steve finally sighed out, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. He allowed himself to sink onto the black, leather couch, his head leaning against the back of the frame, his eyes shut tightly.

Bruce rolled his eyes although no one could see him do so. "Believe me Captain. The  _last_  thing America needs is  _Tony Stark_  being the ultimate goal for moral standards."

Steve chuckled without feeling as Bruce turned back towards him, refusing to even open his eyes in hope at the concept of him ever being wanted more than the socialite himself. "I guess I'll believe it when I see it. Or if I ever catch up."

"You will," Bruce's voice seemed to take on a new, slightly positive tone. Steve cocked his head to one side, his eyes opened wide at the idea of something else being explained to him alarming enough.

"Relax," Bruce's brown eyes warmed ever so slightly before disappearing down into their dark depths. "I'm going to get you a new phone. You have to keep trying to stay connected."

Bruce's eyes flashed briefly in conviction at the solider, before he abruptly turned back away.

"You're not going to email it to me, are you?" Steve asked wearily from the couch, not even daring to reach for the television's _ree-mote_ , instead a newspaper in hand.

Bruce allowed himself a smirk before turning entirely back to his work at the computer, opening a new window and typing in E-Bay into the search engine. "Definitely not. I think this phone you'll enjoy immensely, And I'm going to deliver it myself. Just calls. No texting. No internet. And No  _Stark_ -attached."

"Really?" A blond brow rose in disbelief. "Not even if he takes the whole loony thing apart and puts in back together with all them wires' an' junk?"

Bruce quickly added a Nokia 3310 square mobile phone to his cart. "I'd like to see him  _try._ "


End file.
